


in the light of the morning (darling, we will shine)

by orphan_account



Series: merlin and arthur according to camelot [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), M/M, Poor Leon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24627103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Morgana sees the inevitable flame long before anyone else notices a spark.Her most trusted friend, her brother, has had a long string of lovers for as long as Morgana has known what the furtive glances and blushing cheeks mean. He appreciates dark-haired women and brutish, blond men; he hungers after elegance and the poise that comes with being foreign royalty, and he has never in Morgana’s long-standing residence in Camelot, allowed anyone to tell him what to do.Bumbling, sharp-tongued, beautiful Merlin, doesn’t fit that pattern
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: merlin and arthur according to camelot [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1800340
Comments: 39
Kudos: 563





	in the light of the morning (darling, we will shine)

Morgana sees the inevitable flame long before anyone else notices a spark.

Her most trusted friend, her brother, has had a long string of lovers for as long as Morgana has known what the furtive glances and blushing cheeks mean. He appreciates dark-haired women and brutish, blond men; he hungers after elegance and the poise that comes with being foreign royalty, and he has never in Morgana’s long-standing residence in Camelot, allowed anyone to tell him what to do.

Bumbling, sharp-tongued, beautiful Merlin, doesn’t fit that pattern. Merlin, barely a man when he first graces their presence, has wide blue eyes that hold naivety and the promise of a warm future. Although it takes Morgana by surprise when she watches him challenge Arthur from her bedroom window, she can’t help but notice the upward twitch of Arthur’s lips every time he dignifies the newcomer with a scathing response.

In the years afterward, Merlin rams into Arthur’s facade like it’s a barrier of paper held together by a drunkard’s shaky hands. Still, Morgana watches, she wonders what makes Arthur so fond of this manservant that he would openly defy Uther, the man who raises his hand to cheeks no matter what age nor what injustice. The questions start when Arthur is 24 summers of age, a prince who still snaps and whines when he doesn’t get his way, and as he gains years, Morgana gathers answers.

1\. Merlin has never known when to shut up; a trait, it seems, that Arthur is rather dependent upon. It starts innocuously, if not a bit dangerously, with words like ‘clotpole’ and ‘dollophead’ and Morgana thinks that she’ll never have an understanding of Merlin’s made-up language the way her brother does. She recalls that council meeting, a time under Uther’s reign. She was wearing a simple gown, a purple ensemble so deep that you may be able to taste the wine that Arthur surely drowned himself in later.

“We cannot afford to waste our grain on the poor, sire.” The member of the court has a flushed red face that Morgana knows has nothing to do with the lack of ventilation. “The nobles will starve.”

The chair upon which she has sat for the last hour seems to grow exponentially more uncomfortable when the chattering voices of men that Morgana doesn’t particularly care for fill the room. She herself doesn’t usually participate in these debates, no one listens to her on issues of politics anyway. But Arthur always says something in defense of those who have less, which, to nobility, equates to being lesser than, and in the current dispute about grain shortages, he doesn’t disappoint.

“Without the people, there is no Camelot worth protecting, father!” he protests with a vigor that can only be the result of a strong moral conviction- though where he suddenly got that renewed energy, Morgana doesn’t know. Council meetings have always been a place where Arthur spoke his mind simply with the hope of being heard, never has he fought with a passion that demanded to be obeyed. “We must assure the future of our kingdom.”

“What future is there without nobility?” the same noble argues back, seemingly unperturbed by Arthur’s sudden enthusiasm.

“The food _can_ be allocated equally, you know.” It seems, in addition to being an outspoken teenager, Arthur had taken to standing, perhaps to make himself feel taller. “Honestly Lord Rowan, are you a dollophead?”

Naturally, it is silent until Morgana bursts out laughing. It’s not that the word itself is amusing, rather, the horrified gape of Arthur’s mouth compliments the disgusted twitching of Lord Rowan’s nostrils so well that there’s no other sane reaction. Gaius, for his part, seems to know very well where Arthur got the word from, and is playing the part of a homicidal grandfather extremely well.

 _It is a good thing that Merlin is doing chores_ , Morgana thinks, _because he would surely bear the brunt of Arthur’s murderous gaze_.

Unfortunate for Arthur, it is his father that is doing the glaring. “Dollophead,” Uther repeats very slowly, choosing to deem ‘dollop’ and ‘head’ as two separate words (anyone who has heard Merlin use it knows very well that it is singular, like a dart that is meant to hit its target, typically Arthur, right in the center).

“Father I-”

Uther raises a hand to stop him. “You can and will apologize in your own time,” he says in a bitter tone that tells Morgana that he would much rather prefer it if Arthur was training to be the Court Jester instead of the future King. “Regrettably,” he shifts his weight to harden the implications of his judgment. “It seems that my insolent son is right. We will give grain to the poor, only until this drought passes.” He stands, at a stature much taller than his son’s, who has found himself too mortified to sit apparently. “This council is dismissed.”

Later that day, Morgana walks to Arthur’s chambers, if not to do anything but make fun of him endlessly. She isn’t surprised to hear two voices in the room, there are always two voices between dusk and dawn; unless there are no voices, meaning that Arthur has dragged poor Merlin to get killed on something resembling a hunting trip. 

She’s eavesdropping behind a closed door, but she doesn’t need to see anything to know by the tone of Merlin’s voice, that he is parading, no, skipping around the room as he speaks. “Morgana told me you called Lord Rowan a dollophead,” he announces gleefully, like Arthur had forgotten in the last two hours.

Morgana hears a, “shut up, Merlin” followed by a distant, clanging noise. She smiles to herself, much softer than the hearty laugh she had at the council meeting. She knows, without a doubt, that though Arthur complains about Merlin’s voice incessantly, the day that Merlin becomes quiet, Arthur would forget what it meant to heed advice once again.

2\. For such an intelligent individual, Merlin doesn’t have any sense of self-preservation. Both he and Arthur seem to have a hero complex that is the bane of every knight in Camelot, a staggering need to rush into danger that causes the vein on Sir Leon’s temple to start twitching. 

Morgana has been on several trips, enough to have witnessed Merlin’s fondness for death first hand. The first time it happens, it is just the five of them: Morgana, Arthur, Merlin, Gwen, and Sir Leon. They are waiting, well most of them are, Arthur’s ceaseless optimism on these journeys have begun to border on stupidity, for the unavoidable bandit attack that will befall them on the way back to the castle. Morgana keeps pace with Leon and Gwen, for neither the Prince’s nor his manservant’s attention is ever attainable when they are in close proximity of each other.

“And then,” Arthur’s brattish voice announces their presence to those who don’t care to listen, really, maybe the bandits only attack to regain their sense of peace and quiet. “You scared away that deer, that could’ve been the catch of the season, you know! It’s a wonder I don’t fire you one of these days, Merlin.”

‘Fire’ is beginning to sound a lot like the word ‘kiss’ or even perhaps, ‘bed’. Sir Leon rolls his eyes with the same force he applies to battle training, and Morgana knows that treason has been at the forefront of his thoughts ever since they left Camelot three days ago.

Gwen is the first one to tense, having always had a talent for feeling an air of danger that seems to come coupled with being the most intelligent member of their chaotic party. Morgana watches as her brown eyes dart around, focusing on something that she can’t see.

“Gwen?” she asks softly. “Is everything okay?” Unlike Arthur, both Leon and Merlin seem interested in her response.

“I-” and like an arrow her expression changes sharply into a warning. “Duck!”

Morgana crouches at the same time that Merlin, Arthur, and Leon jump off their horses. Everything is a flurry of motion and she and Gwen hide behind forestry before they can get thrown off their saddles. From there, they have a perfect view of brash foolishness.

The battle lasts for all of ten minutes; there are five bandits and they are no match for trained warriors in Camelot red. Arthur says something, probably to call Merlin a girl, even though both Morgana and Gwen have time and time again seen the innocent golden flash of his eyes save them all.

The sixth bandit leaps out of the opposite bush without notification. He makes to stab the Prince in the back, or if Arthur turns, his heart. Merlin’s legs and his mouth react at the same time, as if his brain and his mind couldn’t be bothered to communicate. He effectively sends the bandit flying into a large tree with a sickeningly lethal sound; however, Merlin’s magical talents are trivial in comparison to the blade greeting him just below his shoulder. 

Arthur, as clever as he is, stands there mutely, opening and closing his mouth in a way that Morgana wished he would do more. She searches his expression, looking for fear or disgust or anger, but all she sees is the crystalline blue horror of losing a friend, a dear friend.

Merlin however, is the perfect picture of a sorcerer fated to the pyre. He trembles, poor thing, like a little kitchen mouse might, eyes wide and unblinking to match. He flinches when Sir Leon, Morgana had nearly forgotten he was there, approaches him, his face schooled into the same protectiveness Morgana sees when he is training new recruits.

“Sire, if I may,” Leon starts to defer to his prince, then shakes his head, resolute. “Merlin has saved our lives time and time again. We cannot send him to die.”

Arthur wheels on him, shock masking any other tell that Morgana might have used to interpret why he was behaving in this way. When he speaks, he squeals out his words like he, not Merlin, is the pig headed to slaughter. “ _Die_?”

Gwen hesitates, but at least Merlin has allowed her to pull him to his shaky feet, to put an arm around him the way a mother might. “Leon is right, you can’t tell Uther.” She gives Morgana a sideways look that could mean anything and continues regardless. “Morgana and I won’t let you.” There is a fierce, loyal determination that Morgana had always admired, had always wished to claim as her own. But it resonates within her nonetheless, if Gwen said that they were going to stop Arthur from telling Uther, then dammit, they would.

“Tell my _father_?” and now Arthur was positively shrieking. They all recoiled at the high pitch, but none more so than Merlin, who was in fact, still bleeding. “Are you insane?”

Finally, Morgana registers what they’ve all been missing. She understands that her brother is pale, not because of the golden hue around Merlin’s iris’s but because of the crimson blood streaking its way down to the forest floor. “You knew,” she realizes.

“What are you-” and it dawns on Arthur as well, though, taking stock of the situation, he should have been the one to draw the conclusion first. “The _magic_?” her brother was positively whistling now. Morgana was tempted to ask if he was auditioning to be Camelot’s resident soprano. “Of course I knew.”

“Well that would’ve been nice to know,” Merlin grumbles, though there is still a slightly animalistic wariness to the way he holds himself against Gwen. 

Morgana doesn’t know how to process this, and it seems that Sir Leon doesn’t either- attempting to copy the bewildered expression that was on Arthur’s face a few moments prior. 

It is the most well known fact in Camelot that everyone would have been dead a long time ago if it wasn’t for Guinevere. She has somehow already fastened a bandage from the folds of her serving dress and is looking at all three of them expectantly. “Well?” her tone is bitingly sharp, and Morgana can see Arthur think: _is a servant allowed to talk to me like that?_ as if Merlin doesn’t for a good portion of the day. “Is anyone going to help me get this dagger out of him or were we planning on letting Merlin bleed out on the forest floor?”

Merlin says something under his breath that sounds like, _bleeding out doesn’t seem like a bad option_. But unfortunately for him, Sir Leon simply nods his head and grips Merlin’s shoulder, conveying a secret message in that firm grasp. He pulls; hard, and Merlin doubles over instantly, sucking in a large, trembling breath. Arthur is by his side before the air reaches his lungs.

“Merlin!” Arthur’s hands flutter with uselessness as Gwen calmly ties the bandage. 

“Fine.” Merlin replies, in an embarrassed mumble. “Just cold for a second.”

“You, you _idiot_ ,” Arthur has apparently gone through the five stages of grief in the last few minutes. He wraps an arm around Merlin’s stomach as his friend gives an appreciative nod to Gwen, thanking her for saving them yet again. Though Gwen responds with a clipped voice meant to hide her concern, that if Merlin wasn’t so insistent on saving them, then he wouldn’t need saving.

As Arthur and Merlin hobble off in the vague direction of Camelot, the three others share an exasperated glance. “It’s almost like they live in their own world,” Morgana says, shaking her head as they trail behind, the horses long gone from the area.

Leon mopes as he kicks a rock sullenly, cross that he had to hide Merlin’s ‘secret’ all this time, though he would never voice this. In fact, the only thing that passes out of his lips the whole way back to Camelot, a statement that Morgana wonders if she was even meant to hear, is “I need a drink.”

3\. When Morgana strolls into Arthur’s chambers only to find the King himself missing and his posse of knights that have grown to resemble little ducklings following their mother-the mother being Merlin, not Arthur- she doesn’t think much of it. Instead, she nods in greeting and wanders over to her brother’s haphazard closet where she knows he has hidden the magical amulet that likes to make Arthur listen to her against his will. 

When she hears Gwaine say, “but Merlin is bloody attractive, mate,” she freezes. 

Merlin, who has rapidly become one of her best friends ever since they have started confiding in each other about magic, in her eyes is still a gangly boy with a tendency to trip over objects plainly in view. Admittedly, he possesses cheekbones sharper than Morgana’s own, but she knows that her collarbones will always reign supreme. 

Merlin has always been pretty, but it’s clear that Morgana doesn’t see him in the same way as wherever this discussion is headed. She makes herself smaller, a thread in this sea of curtains, so that the conversation doesn’t derail in her presence.

“Right, right,” Gwaine is speaking to someone else, but it’s dismissive. Morgana knows he hasn’t been listening. “But Percival, his _eyes_.”

“Gwaine,” Lancelot chides, and Morgana can’t help but think of how grateful Leon must be now that they have a couple more drops of intellect in their chaotic family. “You know you can’t ever tell Merlin any of this.”

“Unless you want your head chopped off,” Elyan adds, and Morgana is inclined to agree. Merlin has been promised to Arthur since the birth of magic, two sides of the same coin.

The duo in question bursts into the room in an animated discussion over something trivial. Now that thought has brushed its hand against speech, Morgana sees invisible feelings like they are brilliant blasts of color. She cannot miss the way Arthur stares at Merlin’s face when the warlock speaks: like he has hung the stars and the moon in the sky just so that they may gaze at them together when they are alone.

Morgana only has to glance at Leon once to know that they are thinking the same thing. The knight, princess, and the servant; three bystanders who have watched Merlin and Arthur’s relationship evolve from a timid bud into an entire forest of shared glances, absolute promises, and unadulterated affection. Gwaine thinks Merlin attractive, but Arthur’s hands rest just a moment too long on Merlin’s arm and Morgana nearly trembles at the intimacy of it; Arthur thinks that Merlin is beautiful.

Arthur shows no surprise at the infiltration of his chambers. However, he spots Morgana with the eyes of a seasoned hunter, and annoyance crosses his face, pinches between his eyebrows. “Morgana!” he whines, putting the emphasis on the first syllable out of childish habit. “Get out of my drawers.”

She tosses the amulet between two hands, enjoying the way her brother’s scowl deepens. “Why would I do that, Arthur dear?”

“Morgana,” Gwaine coughs into a fist with a respect that she’d never heard from the drunkard knight. He tries to disguise the greeting as surprise, but the Knights of the Round Table know better, and Morgana does as well. “How long have you been here?”

She smiles at him, batting her eyelashes just to annoy Arthur a bit more. “Not long Sir Gwaine. I’d wager just long enough.” Gwaine, if possible sinks lower into his seat, refusing to so much as breathe in Merlin’s direction. Percival, the kind giant of man, pats Gwaine’s shoulder. As the comfort was coupled with the roll of Lancelot and Elyan’s eyes, Morgana isn’t sure that the reassuring touch makes much of a difference.

Merlin glances around suspiciously, trying to encompass all the inhabitants of the room under his gaze. His promotion to Court Sorcerer under Arthur’s magic advocacy reign hasn’t changed much; he still taps his feet at a rapid pace constantly, jittery when no work is getting done. There is a quiet reverence for this man who does so much and has received so little. 

Morgana sees it in the mirror; every week she wonders where she would be without Merlin’s mentorship. She thinks that there would be a lack of jewelry around her pale neck and an absence of hope in her blood; her kind, caring, _magic_ blood.

“Well, I’d best be going,” Morgana announces into the conversation that has little to do with her anyway. 

“Not so fast,” Arthur has already crossed his arms in an effort to appear more intimidating. “The amulet.”

Merlin looks at Morgana, weighs out how much fun the two of them could have if Arthur had no choice but to do their bidding. “Let her keep it,” he tells Arthur. It’s not a command, simply a humble request from an old friend. “It may be useful one day, and lord knows that you would forget where you hid it.”

Arthur doesn’t look any more agreeable, but he grumbles out a response. “Fine.”

Merlin winks at Morgana as she escapes, and she doesn’t know how to disclose to him that Arthur would follow Merlin to the end of the world if he requested it, with or without any magical amulet.

Later that day, Morgana spots Arthur alone on the second story balcony looking quite like a lovestruck fool. 

“Merlin’s gone home for the day then?”

Arthur jumps, not that he would ever admit it, as the unexpected noise. Unlike earlier, in front of his loyal knights, in front of his Merlin, he doesn’t grumble at her company. 

Instead, he simply makes room for her on the railing as they watch children play in the pink hues of the courtyard.

“Merlin,” he pauses, like he doesn’t use the name hundreds of times in an hour. “Had to attend to something in the lower town. Something magical.” He says the word magic with a quiet sort of deference these days, having finally come to accept that sorcery will not send you to the pyre during this era of Camelot.

There is no turn-around between his explanation and Morgana’s next train of thought. She wants to assure that her thick-skulled brother has no reservations on what she’s implying. “Do you think you’ll get married soon?”

Arthur doesn’t ridicule her, doesn’t even scowl at her fake naivety. He just lets out a long sigh; clearly, he’s done a lot more than just think about the prospect of courting Merlin.

“Merlin is…” he struggles to find the right words, and Morgana is sure that everyone in Camelot has felt that way about the Court Sorcerer at some point. “He wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“You should put that in your vows.”

He rolls her eyes, but once Arthur is passionately discussing something, he doesn’t tend to stop, especially when that something is Merlin. “He’s ridiculously childish and clumsy, and he talks back to everyone, even me.” He says, as if that means anything to the woman who’s seen him reduced to tears because of his 5 year-old distaste for wine. “And he rushes out into battle with the bravery of ten Camelot knights, for me.”

Arthur, or who Morgana knows must be Arthur, though from the way he has begun to wax poetry, his identity is rather up for debate, still doesn’t look at her. There is a silvery veil to him, a trance-like stance that may be broken if he looks anywhere but the lower town where Merlin is. “His name falls from my lips like it was meant to be, Morgana. Merlin,” and Morgana sees his point; the name cascades purity like honey dribbling from its maker.

“He is ethereal, of this I am sure.” And Arthur indeed sounds more sure about Merlin than he is the color of his own eyes. “And I am in love with him, Morgana.”

She hates to ruin a good moment between two siblings, they don’t have many, and both of them seem to hate listening to the other pontificate anyway. But Morgana feels an arching need to enlighten Arthur on his own stupidity, “your confession is heart-warming, Arthur. But I can’t say that nearly all of Camelot doesn’t know this already.”

He turns to squint at her, trying to discern meaning from convoluted phrasing. Understanding colors his features and she can see his ears flush a soft pink. “Good then,” he decides, though it doesn’t match the uncertainty hidden away in the finger tapping, the one bad habit Uther never broke him from.

“I don’t mean to be a bother, but do you think you’ll get married soon then?” she repeats the question with an innocent bat of her eyelashes. “I do have to plan my gown and such.”

Arthur smiles at her playfulness; a gentle, carefree smile that she hasn’t seen much of since he became the Crown King. “If he’ll have me, I intend to ask tonight.”

“Oh silly Arthur,” she looks back to the courtyard, the setting sun nearly masking the return of a lanky shadow they both know to be Merlin. Her brother’s eyes are aflame with a feeling so strong that Morgana feels its presence like a warm hug. “He’s always been yours.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first work on this platform, ahhh. Anyways, I'm trying to write more short pieces like this one, so I'm taking requests. Please give me ideas! And feel free to ask about other fandoms as well.
> 
> ~M


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